insanity's virgin
by Neko Oni
Summary: previously titled die another day. a muslim boy has a female celtic yami! it's AU- the yugioh characters haven't appeared in here yet, although yami bakura and yami are referred to here briefly. rating changed to pg-13 b/c of the yami's potty mouth
1. my evil yami

DIE ANOTHER DAY  
  
There are artifacts from ancient times that have spirits inside them. No, they're not haunted or any sort of that rot. Those spirits were sealed in there purposefully. For what, only Allah knows. They have survived throughout the millenias. They come from various civilizations. Not everyone who possesses these items awakens/ releases the spirit residing within. No, you have to have a special mark. The mark of a hikari, or a light. These spirits are yamis, or darks. Some may be kinder than others, but they are all still the dark side of the person's soul.  
  
Yamis and hikaris are two parts of one whole. Kind of like the yin and yang thing. Since it takes two halves to equal one whole, one yami is usually paired with one hikari. After death, the soul is reincarnated and yami and hikari unite again, although both may not realize it. But there is a bond between them, a bond that is unbreakable. For some reason He only knows, God has seen fit to make it that way.  
  
Yamis and hikaris are closely linked. Yamis reside within their artifacts, can communicate telepathically with their hikaris, and even switch places with them. Usually, they're of the same gender. Usually. In my case, however, if my yami ever got the chance to gain control of my body, I'd sprout breasts.  
  
Yes, that's right. I'm a male hikari, and my yami is female. If there are any gender differences, it is usually a female hikari with a male yami. But no, I just happen to be a freak among freaks.  
  
Before I go any further, I should probably tell you about myself and my yami. I am a Muslim boy. I grew up in the heart of the Middle East. I am very quiet; I love to read books, usually adventure, historical, classics, or romance. I obey the will of Allah. I was always a good kid, if a bit laid back. I have always been very careful to follow the regimen of my religion. It is, after all, Allah's will. My parents died recently, leaving me alone. I had to come to America of all places to live with my uncle. He's never around much; he's a work-aholic, and when he is home, he's busy in his 'study'. Whatever. I've always been easily self amused. Actually, I've always preferred to be alone than crowded by people. Freaky, I know.  
  
But now, after my uncle just had to give me that darned Celtic necklace from some stupid trip he took to some ancient Irish ruins, I've never been alone. Oh, I should tell you that I'm a history buff. That's why, when I first came to live with my uncle, and the bachelor had already booked and paid for the trip, feeling guilty, he'd given me the ancient, heavy ornament, which he'd found under some stones. That necklace just happened to contain my yami. Lucky, lucky me.  
  
Sometimes, I truly think that Allah is punishing me. You'll understand after I tell you about my yami. She's one warped spirit. I am a modest boy, and I like modest girls. You know the type; a pure, quiet and reserved girl. My yami is a nymphomaniac, loud, boisterous, moody, irritable, violent, unpredictable, and just plain CRAZY. During the holy month of Ramadan, when us Muslims are supposed to abstain from food from dawn to dusk, my yami never tires of taunting me with food and drink. She knows just how to push me. In America, just because you're a Muslim and you're fasting, doesn't mean the rest of the world is. At school, others eat while I don't. I just sit quietly in the cafeteria reading a book until lunch is over. But will yami let me read in peace? No. She'll tease and taunt me. Her most recent Ramadan stunt was to throw food at me. Yes, she chased me all over the house, pelting me with grapes. Luckily, she's never forced food down my throat. But I've come close to weakening so many times.  
  
She has no modesty. She loves short- and I mean SHORT, even by American standards- skirts and shorts. She pairs short skirts with fishnet stockings, a thong, and high heeled boots. And her tops. Don't get me started on that. The only thing I have to say is she makes Britney Spears look like a modest, veiled virgin. And, oh, she does taunt me. I am not interested in sex; I believe a male and female should love each other for who they are on the inside, not just physical lust. But the body has a mind of it's own; she's gotten purposefully close to me, making me.......I will not say anything other than she's never taken my virginity. But my first kiss.....yes. I'll tell you that another day.  
  
She's a sex fiend. I know; she's not just a tease in slutty clothes. There's been so many nights when I've lain in bed, alone, only to feel her return to me. She often had bruises and dried blood on her, and she reeked of sex. I've seen her, once, with one of her favorite partners. He's a very nasty yami; I don't know his name, except to say he's from ancient Egypt, is very powerful, and has a mean streak a mile wide. He's much worse that her. Another one she's attracted to, and has had sex with- I know, I've seen her with this one, too- is another Egyptian. The first one, I've heard her call him tomb robber. The second one was a pharaoh. And those two had obviously crossed paths before- they hate each other. But the tomb robber fears the pharaoh. One thing I must say about him; although he's a dark, he's not as evil and masochistic/ sadistic as some of the others. Oh, I would never want to end up on his bad side, but he wasn't as corrupted as some of the others. One thing I find amusing is an ancient Celt having sex with an ancient Egyptian. Go figure. She's had more lovers, but I haven't seen any of them. And I thank Allah for that every night.  
  
Even though my yami and I are two halves of one whole, we're as different as night and day. I love soft, gentle music. She loves angry, aggressive music. I wear modest clothing, sometimes black, but I often favor lighter, neutral shades. She liked dark, skimpy clothing, in the gothic style. I like girls with no make up; she loads piles of "black shit" onto her face; well, the colors are always dark, anyways. I am a devout believer. She has no clue what praying even is. I don't swear. She has a mouth filthier than a country gas station toilet. I try to get along with others, and not to rock the boat too much; she delights in purposefully pissing people off.  
  
We do have one thing in common; our love of martial arts. I like it as a way of meditation, training and disciplining the body. She just loves to fight. I prefer empty handed techniques; she loves anything sharp and pointy. From kitchen knives to samurai swords, if it has a blade, she knows how to use it. There have been so many competitions I've competed in that she's struggled to gain control of my body, to fight, to win. One thing with all yamis; they can be utterly ruthless in their conquests. My yami loves to battle. She's not so much attracted to games as she is to a fight. Even in bed, it's a struggle for dominance with her. Not that I'd know, though.  
  
You're probably curious as to if my yami has a name. She's never told me, and I've never bothered to ask. The only time I had resulted in a slap to the face, and the answer that she'd had so many names, been so many things, that she was named nothing at all. She had a current name, but it was just one of her many dark, sordid secrets. Secrets that I never wanted to find out. Secrets, that, as her hikari, I was destined to find out. 


	2. my new life

My yami. My sadistic, evil yami. My life has become so volatile and rapidly changing, that I can barely remember life before her and America. It was only a few months ago, but, oh dear sweet Allah, it seems like years. You may think it strange, but until you're churned inside out-until your world suddenly collapses, and you're thrown into a whirlwind of change- then you'll understand. I will try my best to explain.  
  
It's not just my yami; she's a major factor here, but there are others, as well. My old life, in the Middle East, was one of a routine; there was an order and unchanged rhythm of life. No, I did not live in some rural village; I lived in a thriving city full of change. How can life be changed yet unchanged? Yes, we had new technologies of the 20th century, but Islam was the main religion. Everyone I knew was a middle class Muslim. We spoke the same language, shared the same thoughts, and had a common value system. Yes, there were different ethnic groups there. You were either a middle class Muslim, or you weren't. It was as simple as that. Oh, don't let me fool you; yes, we had our political unrest and much violence in my country, but that was the big picture. Did I ever tell you how my parents died? My father had been taking my mother to go shopping in his new car when, in traffic, a bus with a suicide bomber blew up. My parents' car was right behind that bus. So, yes, there was violence in my life. But the culture was stable and had an established social norm.  
  
I'm talking about ordinary, everyday life; the thread of the community. Here, in America, everything is so different. People of different backgrounds commonly mix; some of them proudly stay separate. There is conflicting, swirling, and combining of cultures. It was all so new and upsetting to me. It still often is. Nothing is as it's supposed to be. My first trip to the local mall was proof of this diversity. I've seen Muslim women fully veiled from head to toe, girls of many races wearing sweaters, blouses, t-shirts- the common American mode of dress- to boys and girls wearing clothing similar to my yami's. Gothic, punk, skater, and a few other things I think it's called.  
  
I am still having many troubles adapting to the major culture change. I've had good and bad experiences, but those aren't the point of this. I have also had trouble adapting to my new family. Back home, it was simple: my father went to work and my mother stayed home. It was the classical husband and wife roles. My mother made breakfast, I got up, went to school, came home, and she was always there. When I think of her, I always picture her in the kitchen. So clichéd, I know, but so true in my case. My uncle, as I've said before, is hardly ever home. He is my father's brother, who came to America in his early twenties for studying at a university, and decided to never come back home. He is an aspiring writer and a journalist for a popular newspaper. He spends many hours in overtime, returning home late at night after searching for a "big scoop" as he likes to say. He's had several already, and has written many essays and papers criticizing and researching modern events/ cultural ideals.  
  
This means that, when I wake up for school, it is a rush as we both try to get ready for school and work. Instead of a home cooked breakfast, it's boxed cereal and cold milk. I don't walk to school; I take a school bus. America is the only place in the world that has separate transportation for school students. I am still trying to understand why this is so. School is one topic I don't want to go into now. That's just another area of new stress for my life. And I'm deviating from my topic. _ I have a key to my uncle's apartment on the 3rd floor. I am home long before him. Supper is take out when he's home, and when he's not, it's microwaveable dinners. Some of it is not quite bad, actually. The Swanson meals aren't bad (especially their chicken nuggets), but don't but the generics; I still haven't gotten the cardboard taste out of my mouth yet. I have finished my homework, watched some TV, did a little cleaning, and am in bed by the time he gets home. On the nights he's home, if it's a weekend, we'll go out to a restaurant, which I particularly enjoy, or we'll order take out, eat, then after supper, he closes himself in his study to work on his first novel. He spends every spare moment in there. On his rare days off, I have to drag him out of his study for 3 out of our 5 daily prayers.  
  
School itself is another challenge. American high schools are very different from my old one. There's so much social pressure that studies are often neglected. As an outsider, I haven't experienced much of the "inner circle", but I have been teased and made fun of for my accent, my clothes, and, occasionally, my religion. But compared to my yami, those kids are nothing. Soon, after a couple of months, the other students tired of me and my lack of responses, and I was accepted. I am not in any social circle or clique; I'm not even a loner or freak, as some that don't conform/ fit in are called. I'm simply the weird kid from Saudi Arabia.  
  
Besides my yami, these are the other main stressors in my life. I have felt myself slipping slowly down this emotional slide. I try and hold on, I pray for Allah to help me, but with each passing month, I find myself getting buried deeper and deeper. On top of all this adjusting I've been doing, there's also the fact that I miss my parents. Yes, this sounds childish, but what person, no matter their age, doesn't cry when they loose their parents? My uncle offered to take me to a person he called a grief counselor, but to me it sounded like one of those psychiatrists who put you in the asylum, the place for crazy people. And I'm not crazy. A girl I once talked to told me, "If you can count to forty, you're not crazy." And I have been counting to forty every night before I fall asleep. It is a prayer, a cry, a plea.  
  
I am not crazy. I am not crazy, although my yami and my new life have tried to make me so. I am not crazy. I must stop writing now...my eyelids are falling.... I am not crazy..1, 2, 3, 4, 5, .... 


	3. i am not crazy

Before we begin, a quick lil' authors note: first of all, thankies to nomi who helped me out with this chappie!! I wrote it, but he gave me the words for counting in urdu. Love ya babe!!! ^_~ urdu is the native language of Pakistan, where the main character was ORIGINALLY supposed to come from...but Pakistan is NOT in the middle east, and I said he was from the middle east, so I used Saudi Arabia....i could've used virtually and middle eastern country, but I chose Saudi b/c..well, I chose Saudi. That's why. I'm still keeping him speaking urdu, though, b/c I don't know Arabic or urdu, and nomi knows urdu.so.well, it's inconsistent, I know, and maybe one day I'll go back and fix it up, but until then...oh well, deal with it! It's only a ficcie!!! So I don't want any flames for that!  
  
Oh, and some things ya need to know; (thankies to nomi!) this is nomi here:  
  
1= one= aik = two= do = three= teen = four= chaar = five= paanch = six= chaih = seven= saath 8= eight= aath 9= nine= no 0= ten= das  
  
ok, now to the ficcie!!!  
  
```````````````````````````````````````  
  
6, 7, 8, 9, 10...  
  
I am not crazy.  
  
11, 12, 13, 14, 15....  
  
I am not crazy.  
  
16, 17, 18, 19, 20....  
  
I am not crazy.  
  
21, 22, 23, 24, 25....  
  
I am not crazy.  
  
26, 27, 28, 29, 30....  
  
I can not sleep. My body is aching with exhaustion, my soul with weariness, but I can not sleep. Thoughts and memories are bouncing around in my head in a jumbled cacophony, mixing the past and present. Who am I, really? Am I the orphan boy from Saudi Arabia, or am I my uncle's American nephew? Where do I fit in? Do I want to fit in? Why doesn't my mother cook breakfast anymore? She's dead; that's right. How could I have forgotten? Is my uncle sleeping? I think he is. I think I should be, too. But I am not; I'm thinking instead. Does thinking mean analyzing what's inside your head, sorting out your thoughts from your emotions? If it is, then I don't really want to think anymore. Funny, I was always thought of as a bright child. Maybe the light bulb is burning out. Oh well; does it really matter? I think I need to stop thinking.  
  
My head is hurting, and I truly do not think I make sense, even to myself. I really must stop thinking, and feeling. There is only one thing I know of, other than prayer, which runs on pure instinct, and that's martial arts. There are many different forms and styles, and subdivisions amongst those. My chosen style is Taekwondo. Well, my yami's, actually. I would really like to practice Tai Chi, but, when I had first moved in with my uncle, and we had a discussion stemming from the need he felt for me to become 'involved' in an activity to 'help me cope with these new adjustments', I had chosen martial arts. When picking my style, right before I said Tai Chi, my yami decided to take control of my mouth. Taekwondo came out instead. There are many aggressive forms of martial arts, but my yami currently seems engrossed with Taekwondo. It is widely known for its aggressive nature, relying purely on physical strength and endurance. At least, according to her. Who am I to argue? At this point, I really don't care; as long as I get the release my entire being craves. As long as I can escape my inner turmoil, I do not care.  
  
I would kneel on my mat and pray, but I am in no fit state to present myself before Allah and petition his help. I am a mess right now. So, I will do the only other thing that grants me release from my hell. I get out of bed and pad my way silently throughout the house, still in my pjs. I exit onto the roof of our apartment building and go, barefoot, across the cold cement to a thick, wide blue mat, where I usually practice when the weather is nice, as it is tonight.  
  
Standing in the center of the mat, I close my eyes, breathing deeply and summoning all my tension and frustrations into one big ball that gets caught in my chest, near my heart, and chokes off my breath. Bowing and straightening, I exhale and loose myself into the rhythm of my art. On the short trip up here, I had barely held back my thoughts, but now my active mind was quiet, focusing on the movements and rhythm of my form. My body moves of its own accord, my eyes closed and my soul concentrating on my coordination, timing, and posture. Everything ebbs and flows together, and I forget that the world and myself exists. There is only pure movement and energy. There is only this moment, this strike, this stance, this kick.  
  
//Hell's bloody bells! What the fuck are you doing, you stupid little twit? You're fucking the whole form up!//  
  
My body jerks then stands completely still, air tensely trapped in my lungs. I can feel the ancient silver against my chest, under my shirt, as my yami stirs.  
  
//What the fuck is this?// She is angry; I have used 'our' body to make a 'mockery' of our art. She takes partial control of my body. I can still fill its movement, but I no longer have any say in its actions. I am merely a passenger along for the ride.  
  
//What the fuck is this?// She mentally snarls, and I wince, my soul shrinking away from hers. She moves my limbs in a smooth, flowing, gentle motion. The movements flow together like a gentle stream of water, instead of a raging, rapidly moving river, which is what they should resemble.  
  
//Here's what they should be, you son of a flea bitten whore.// Yes, the words hurt, but I am numb to the pain. I have long since been used to it. They do not bother me anymore. At least, that is what I tell myself; it is my protective barrier.  
  
My limbs are now moving swiftly, powerfully. My yami puts all of her anger and whatever else she's feeling into the blows. By the time she's finished with her demonstration, had returned to her cross, and left me alone in my sack of flesh, sweat is making my caramel skin clammy, and my breath comes in swift little pants. My muscles are aching, and I fall to my hands and knees. She conveniently forgot to breathe; my punishment, I suppose.  
  
I feel tears welling in my eyes. All I had wanted to do was escape from everything for a while. All I wanted was to loose myself in nothingness. A lot of people use that release, in many different forms. That's what I guess muses are; souls seeking release in one form or another. Beauty is born from desperation; it is all around us, all over the face of the earth; music, sculptures, painting, singing, dancing, writing- there are many forms of this 'divine inspiration'. Why, if so many people are granted this release, why is it denied me? I listen, and receive no answer other than the bitter tears running down my bowed head, dripping onto the mat. A sob tears out of my throat, and I let myself go. I cry, rocking back and forth. Oh no; my mind is starting up again. I can feel it coming; I can feel the tightness weaving its way throughout my body.  
  
Why can't I move the way I want to? Why must it be yami's way? Why always her way? Why doesn't anyone stop her? Don't they know what she does? Can't the feel the evil in me? I guess they can't. Should I? No, they wouldn't understand. Where is my uncle? Oh, he's in bed, sleeping. Yami's asleep in her cross. Should I be asleep too? But I don't want to sleep; I want to practice my form. Oh, wait, I did that; that's why I'm in so much pain. Should I go pray now? But my body is too soar to move. I wanna lay down and sleep. No, sleep hurts; sleep brings the demons to your door, you imbecile. Then what should I do? I really don't know. Maybe I should think? Wait, I am thinking. And I don't want to think. I'm doing it again, arent' I? I should go tell my uncle. No, no, bad idea. He'll just want me to go to that grief counselor, and then everyone will know what I think. They will know I'm crazy. And I'm not crazy.  
  
31, 32, 33, 34, 35......  
  
I am not crazy. I will not think of anything except what Brigid told me. She said, "If you can count to 40, you're not crazy." Brigid used to count to 40, and she wasn't crazy. I am counting to 40, and I am not crazy. I do not remember where or when we met; all I know is it was sometime after I moved to America with my uncle. He never met here; no one else did. Brigid was my friend. I wonder if she still counts to 40. Do you ever count to 40? Does that mean you're crazy? Or does that make you sane? I would really like to know what the difference is. Does it matter? Is there really a difference?  
  
36, 37, 38, 38, 39....  
  
I am not crazy. But why can't I go any further? My eyelids are heavy and falling. My cheeks are chilled and stiff with dried tears. My body is stiff as well; I have been kneeled over for so long. I hadn't even noticed my body, not really; I just took stock of its senses. It's really an amazing thing, you know. For example, a hand consists of 5 fingers, and each finger can move separately. Yet, they act as a whole to grasp things, to curl together to form one hard fists, and they can be separated again. Joints bend and move. It's alive, and feels pain, heat, touch, taste, smell..wow, it's truly incredible. But does anyone ever stop to think about it? I guess no one really appreciates Allah's masterpiece. Was Allah inspired to create the human body? If He was, did it come from desperation? But what ever could cause Allah Almighty to feel like that, to give birth to such a creation? Did anyone ever get in Allah's way? Should I even be thinking these thoughts? No, they are bad thoughts. Why are they bad? What is wrong with me? No, No, No. Nothing is wrong with me. Oh shit. I shouldn't have said that; I don't like to swear. Why don't I like to swear; what's wrong with it? Yami does it all the time. She swears; does that make it ok? No, it's not ok. Swearing is bad. Then, why did I swear? Oh, that's right; I can't remember what comes after 39. What should I do? I should start over. Maybe if I say it aloud, and in Urdu. Why should I count in Urdu? That's the language I grew up with; it's my native tongue. Back then, I wasn't crazy. And I'm not crazy now. I had better start counting now.  
  
Rocking back and forth, hugging myself, and facing the holy city of Mecca, I count. Or am I praying? I can not tell the difference. "Aik, do, teen, chaar, paanach, chaih, saath, aath, no, das..." I reach ten before I pass out, unknown to rest of the living, slumbering world. 


End file.
